


Three Prayers to Fen'Harel

by WizardofOzymandias



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Lavellan (Dragon Age), Angst, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Lore, Elvhen Lore, Elvhen Pantheon, F/M, Solavellan Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26485483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardofOzymandias/pseuds/WizardofOzymandias
Summary: Three times Lavellan visits the altar of Fen’Harel, seeking the Dread Wolf’s help. Once before the Conclave, once after the defeat of Corypheus, and once more after she meets Fen’Harel himself. It seems the God of Misfortune does not hear her prayers.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Kudos: 4





	Three Prayers to Fen'Harel

Prayers to Fen’Harel were rare, offered sometimes in the dark winters when survival seemed unthinkable, when frightened petitioners uttered pleas to any deity who might be listening. Most words associated with the Dread Wolf were curses or warnings. The rites of Fen’Harel were entrusted only to the Keeper, taught to the First. And yet children left flowers at his shrines. The God of Nightmares, of Misfortune, Rebellion, Trickery. The one wily enough to outwit the gods. It was to him Lavellan prayed the day before she departed.

“Oh Dread Wolf, Trickster, I bring flowers to adorn your shrine. I beg you, attend me, may my guise be successful. I go among enemies, among those who would strip my freedom from me. There is to be a Conclave, one that will decide the fate of the rebel mages and the templars. I am one they would call a rebel mage, an apostate. Lend me your trickery. Turn their eyes from me and my deception. May my offering please you, Fen’Harel.”

When the Conclave was over, a calamity for the ages, and she emerged marked, Anchored, she remembered her prayer. Her guise had held, but tragedy followed, a loss of identity, a forsaken existence. Perhaps it was best not to pray to Fen’Harel.

And yet she would again, once the day was won. The accursed magister defeated, the sky healed, and her heart rent in two. It was Pride that wounded her, left her empty and aching, abandoned. Her beloved had left her behind, and there was no god she could turn to.

Elgar’nan would demand violence, Mythal revenge. Dirthamen’s mysteries were no solace, and she did not seek Falon’Din’s comfort in death. Andruil could not track down her beloved, nor could Ghilan’nain guide her to him. Sylaise could not heal her heart, and June’s handiwork held no help for her. Her prayers felt useless. And so she turned to Fen’Harel.

“Fen’Harel, God of Misfortune, I bring bitter wine to anoint your altar, as my tears anoint the way before me. My beloved has left me alone without a word. You walk alone, as do I. No clan, no kin, no home to return to. I beg you, turn your eye from me and let my misfortune come to an end. Have pity, Dread Wolf, and bring my suffering to a close. I have given all I have to save this world. All I desire is peace. May my offering please you.”

Two years passed and her misfortune grew. It seemed the Dread Wolf’s pity was not for her. The Anchor grew in kind, sapping her strength and breaking her body. Her life ebbed away with every heartbeat. The day of the Exalted Council claimed the last of her strength. She knew she was failing. All along the way, her steps were dogged by reminders of Fen’Harel, the god she prayed to when her strength was spent.

In a final catastrophe, the truth cut her to the bone: Fen’Harel and Solas were one and the same. Her beloved was her betrayer, who sought the destruction of her world. He took the Anchor from her, drawing the poisoned magic from the wound. She survived that awful day, but only barely. When she healed at last, she went again to pray to Fen’Harel.

There was a place near Skyhold where she had set a small wooden wolf, an improvised shrine. She had done the same for all of her gods, out of sight of the Chantry leaders who would object. On days when her task had seemed heaviest, she had sought the favor of her pantheon. Now that everything was lost, she turned again to the god she prayed to in despair.

“Dread Wolf, God of Rebellion. Trickster. Traitor. _Vhenan_. May your steps be cursed from now until the world’s end. All the sorrow you have brought to me, may you reap in kind. May the work of your hands turn and rend you, false lover, false beloved. Outcast of the gods, may you walk alone till the end of your days. Betrayer, I will love you till the end of my days, which I pray is near. Mighty Fen’Harel, I bring an offering of fire.”

She wept as she watched the carved wolf burn.


End file.
